


dreaming of days of a different life

by antsu_in_my_pantsu



Series: official dream team cowboy au [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Gun Violence, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28368771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antsu_in_my_pantsu/pseuds/antsu_in_my_pantsu
Summary: “What do you want from me?”George didn’t have time to unpack all the connotations of the question, not when Dream was glaring down at him expectantly, his jaw locked and his shoulder squared and his eyes flickering with something fierce.“Will you have tea with me? I know you don't like coffee,” George asked, hating how meek he sounded.Dream averted his gaze, his grip visibly tightening on the horse's reins, and said nothing.“Please. One last act of hospitality,” George forced a crooked smile, “For old time’s sake?”Dream’s lips quirked ever-so-slightly as he nodded and slid off his horse. Almost inaudibly, he muttered, “I’ve never been good at saying no to you,”-Western au in which George has stumbled upon a crossroads; he has to decide between the life he's always known, and the life he never thought he'd want.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: official dream team cowboy au [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1872367
Comments: 121
Kudos: 869





	dreaming of days of a different life

**Author's Note:**

> I’m finally publishing part 3 over 4 months after part 2. What the fuck.
> 
> Chapter 1 picks up right where Part 2 left off. Chapter 1 is from Dream’s POV! The rest will be from George’s :) 
> 
> The work title is from Midnight Cowboy by Surf Curse. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Thanks, bastard,”

_ That’s all he had to say. Six months for two words.  _

Dream wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry, but he was presently doing the latter as George’s shrinking figure blurred into the horizon line. George didn’t even have the decency to look regretful, he had left with a smile.  _ Dream _ was the disaster, Dream was the one sobbing into his own hand like a bitch on the outskirts of a town full of people he didn’t know. Dream was the one who was left behind. 

He didn’t even know what to do with himself, not a first. When were you supposed to stop crying? Are you supposed to cry in the first place? When he got the urge to throw something, he acted on impulse, shattering the bottle of bourbon he had bought only hours before. It was a waste, but the loud cracking sound followed by the splintering of glass was momentarily satisfying.

Distantly, Dream scolded himself for throwing a temper tantrum, over  _ a man _ no less, but at the same time he couldn’t care less about his dignity. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t stay and watch forever. He gathered his things, mounted his horse, and found a barn to crash in for the night.

He woke up in the thick of the afternoon, half expecting for a newly twenty-three year old George to be wrapped in his embrace. It had been a long time since Dream knew the cold of sleeping alone. _Pathetic._

He wanted to slam his head into a wall, rip out his hair,  _ anything _ to stop thinking like a pathetic idiot, but all he could do right now was light up a cigarette. He just wanted to bury himself six feet under ground and wait to feel better again. 

Dream forced himself out of the stranger’s barn, and went to find his horse. Distantly, he knew he had things to do today. He had people to meet, he didn’t have a dime to his name, and he was out of food, and more importantly, alcohol and cigarettes. Now was not the time for mourning, now was the time for him to reprise his role as the lonesome gunslinger. 

It didn’t feel right, living as he did before George. It was so strange how everybody he interacted with didn’t even know that the man he’s been in love with for six months left him twelve hours prior. Dream didn’t know what he was expecting, it was foolish to expect the Earth to stop rotating on its axis because he had his stupid heart broken. 

Dream shoehorned himself back into his usual routine, whatever that meant. He did what he had to, but he felt petulant and irascible all the time, like a child stuck in a perpetual tantrum. Suddenly, the pandemonium of his usual life wasn’t as pleasant alone. It was like trying to wear boots that were too small, everything felt so suffocating, yet oddly empty. 

It had been exactly two weeks since George left when Dream felt like he got a semblance of a grip again, that was, until he was alone in an inn, burning cigarette holes on the shitty mattress and taking sips from stolen bourbon when it hit him, that that’s what he’d been drinking when George left, down to the brand. 

Dream never thought he’d have to cover his mouth from how hard he was crying, but there’s a first time for everything. 

Dream couldn’t recall a time he had ever felt so vulnerable, so  _ pathetic _ , and he despised himself for becoming a shell of his former self. He was supposed to be a hardened criminal, a gunslinger with the bark of a coyote and the bite of a javelina, but he was worked up over some guy who left without looking back. 

Dream could feel his heart beating in his chest as he forced himself to sleep that night. It ached.

Hours passed, and those hours became days, and those days became weeks, and those weeks became months. For a long time, Dream walked on eggshells in his own mind, and any innocuous thing would set him off, but he got a grip on himself eventually. He didn’t just wake up one morning and feel right again, he began healing slowly, over time. He distracted himself with friends and gambling and crime, and although his life was far from perfect, it was functional. 

Dream considered going back for George, because maybe if he was just delusional enough, he could convince George that he was worth it. It wouldn’t have been hard to find him. Sure, his shitty little town wasn’t on most maps, but Dream committed the location to memory a long time ago. Regardless of whether or not Dream wanted to, he knew he never would. It was best to stop while he was ahead. He knew it’d be better to never see George again than to convince him to come back, only to disappoint him for the second time.

Still, to be seen as indispensable by just one person would have been enough for Dream’s entire life, and after getting a sliver of that with George, he knew he was helplessly addicted. He’d never get over it. 

Dream let George slip from his mind, slowly but surely, retreating into the corners of his consciousness until he only existed in his nightmares and occasional midnight hysteria. He wasn’t a domineering force in Dream’s head anymore, he wasn’t the weight on his chest, the iron hand gripping his heart. Dream was able to strike deals, pick up bounties, sojourn, and return to his routine as usual. George was merely the shadow of a phantom long forgotten, an acrid memory to reflect on from time to time, and nothing more. 

Dream’s past had a bad habit of haunting him. 

He walked into the tavern on a perfectly average November first, a day that already felt off for a reason he chose not to think about. The doors creaked open, Dream entered, and was met with a few spare glances and a handful of tipped hats. The chill from outdoors seeped into the dimly-lit room, gnawing at Dream through his faded green coat, but the warmth from within was quick to seize him. Dream contemplated leaving, based on a few unkind glances thrown in his direction, but he had nowhere to spend the night, the sun was setting, and desert nights were unforgiving. He elected to stay.

He took a seat in a far corner of the bar a few seats down from another man, somewhere remote, somewhere he could cloister himself away for a few hours without too many questions. The establishment was underwhelmingly quiet tonight, save for the woman with a guitar performing in the opposite corner, hardly drowned out by patrons with skittish eyes muttering to one another in low tones. Dream felt like his bandana was choking him, suffocated under their stares, but he forced himself to remain.

The man a few seats down shifted in his seat, and Dream could’ve sworn he saw him glance down at him. 

“Good evening, Dream,” 

Dream was immediately caught off-guard by the man’s baritone voice. It was on the verge of recognizable, but Dream couldn’t quite place it. It was until he looked over and was met with the man’s bored expression and wrathful eyes that Dream realized.

“So that’s what you look like without the mask, Techno?” Dream implored, “I see why you kept the damn thing on for so long now,”

Techno rolled his eyes, “How kind,” 

Dream glared at him for a long moment. It was truthfully the first time he had seen Techno’s uncovered face, and it was underwhelming. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Techno was an average looking man, with pale skin juxtaposing hair almost as dark as the circles under his eyes. He stared straight forward, sparing Dream the occasional glance, but never looking directly at him, as though he was too painfully above him. Even dethroned, he was pompous as ever. 

“Do  _ they _ ,” Dream gestured to the patrons, “know who you are?”

“Maybe they do. Maybe they don’t. I don’t really care either way,” Techno shrugged, “Hardly matters,”

“Since when did you become such a wise guy?”

Techno glared at Dream out of the corner of his eyes, the murky brown irises glinting in the lantern light, “Since you destroyed my reputation and ran me out of town two summers ago,”

Dream ground his teeth together, his jaw tight, “Is that why you’re here, then? To see me?”

“I see you’re still a presumptuous egomaniac,” Techno said impertinently.

Dream stared directly at him, “I learned from the best,” 

Techno gave a small smile at that, nodded, and took a sip of his mostly-full glass, swirling with an amber-colored liquid. 

“If you’re not here for me, then why the hell are you here?”

“Nostalgia. A decent drink. Entertainment,” He muttered into the glass, “I dunno, Dream, why are  _ you _ here?"

“I have the right,"

“Same as me,"

Dream narrowed his eyes, “I’m not interested in any fights you’re trying to pick,”

“I see you’re as temperamental as ever,” Techno took a sip, “Who said I was picking a fight?,”

“Fuck off,” Dream barked. It was a knee-jerk reaction, an immature one at that, and Dream knew it - problem is, he had nothing else to say. 

Techno had the audacity to smile, but his eyes were void of kindness, “Not as sharp as you used to be, eh? Maybe the rumors  _ are _ true,” 

“Pardon?”

“Word around town is that you’ve been slipping, Dream,”

Coldness spiked through Dream’s body, infecting his bloodstream.  _ Panic.  _ “Says who? And why?”

Techno made a face of distaste, “ _ Now _ you’re eager to talk to me?”

“Please. Just tell me,” Dream’s voice shook like a leaf in a tempestuous breeze. He hated this, all of it - being at Techno’s mercy, feeling so fragile.

“The folks who used to be your friends-”

“I never had friends,” 

Techno rolled his eyes, “Whatever, the point is every man with a name known around these parts can’t keep yours out of their mouth. They say you’re all bark and no bite these days. You’re getting lazy with your work, not getting mixed up with the law like you used to,” 

Dream scoffed, “People are talking shit because I’ve decided to lay low?”

“That’s bullshit, and we both know it,” Techno hissed, looking directly at the other man, “You’re not ‘laying low’ as much as you’re just letting yourself wither away, and it doesn’t take a learned man to notice,”

Dream swallowed thickly. He felt faint, as though all his blood had been drained out of him. Empty. “What else are people saying about me?”

“They noticed you’re solo now. Think your so-called “downfall” has something to do with that,” Techno waved a dismissive hand, “Still, don’t worry,  _ mighty king _ , your reputation mostly precedes you. A lot of folks still know your name and revere the ground you walk on. It’s just a few stray rumors,”

“What’s your point?” 

“No point, just observation,” Techno cocked his head ever so slightly, “Speaking of going solo, where  _ is _ that associate of yours?"

Dream ground his teeth, “Not around,”

“Not around?”

“More or less,” Dream tried to keep his tone level, “but that doesn’t concern you,” 

“No, it doesn’t. But it’s awfully fun to talk about,”

They sat in silence for a long moment. Techno ordered another drink for himself. Dream didn’t touch his own. He couldn’t help but feel as though everyone within the bar was watching, stalking him with hungry eyes, waiting to pounce or gleefully watch as another took the bait. 

Dream sighed, and leaned into his own hand. He was so incredibly tired. “I don’t know what to do,”

Upon Dream’s words, Techno stilled, and looked at him. His expression changed, his eyes morphed into a holder for something even more despicable than contempt: pity. Dream dropped his gaze, and felt stupid for even saying it. He wanted to put his head through a wall. 

Suddenly, a rambunctious boy with blonde hair and dirt on his face kicked the door open, and fired a round into the ceiling. The patrons of the bar stilled. Over the sound of his gunfire, Dream could barely make out some of his words - something about the Napoleon of the west, about injustice, and tyranny. Dream couldn’t focus on what he was saying, or what it mattered - he couldn’t stop thinking about the familiarity of the accent. 

After the sixth bullet, the boy lowered his gun. Loud, clear, and with clearly feigned confidence, he spoke, “Where is Dream?” 

Every individual in the bar turned to him immediately, their emaciated glares boring into him. From beside him, Techno snickered, and shook his head sadly. “You’re in for it now, partner,”

The bar was silent, save for the sound of the boy stumbling over his too-large boots while sauntering over. Dream thought something about him was familiar, maybe the way his voice wavered when he spoke, or the angry expression on his face. 

Dream narrowed his eyes, taken aback by the raw hatred in the young man’s. “Who might you be?”

“I’m the man who’s going to end your life,” The boy said the words mechanically, as though he rehearsed them dozens of times on the way here. He spoke too vociferously and with too little sincerity, his faux confidence fitting him awkwardly, like a hand-me-down shirt that was a little too large. Up close, Dream saw the youth in this kid’s face, the way his cheeks hollowed out from hunger, but he looked far from aged.  _ God, he looks familiar.  _

“Is that so?” 

The boy nodded, “This day will be your last,” 

Dream wanted to laugh in his face and give him a few pennies for candy. Is this how he sounded when he was a teenager? So obsessed with his own pride, clumsily stuttering out his pre-prepared one-liners in hopes to intimidate? 

Dream’s eyes travelled past the boy’s face, and he noticed a few men crowding around the door. He recognized them, even at a distance - He couldn’t miss Phil’s bright blonde hair, or the way Wilbur Soot’s eyes erratically scoured the room. This was Tommy, the same teenager Wilbur was mentoring a few years ago. Was Tommy there at the infamous game of poker? How long ago was that - how old even was he? 

Was Wilbur forcing him to duel Dream? Was this some sort of rite of passage?

Quietly, Dream said, “Tommy, you don’t have to do this-”

“I want to,” he declared and clamored to draw his gun. He held it as though it was made of a hot coal, it fit awkwardly in his hand. His hands shook, but the resolve in his expression made his intentions crystal clear. “Duel me, you green bastard,”

If you had asked Dream why he accepted the duel that day, he couldn’t tell you. 

Everyone’s eyes were on him, so many prying eyes. In a blur, Dream was outside, he was drawing his gun, he noticed it wasn’t loaded but didn’t reach for his bullets, he closed the hollow chamber and took his place in the dirt road. Dream knew he wasn’t going to shoot this kid, not before hell froze over. He couldn’t forgive himself for a lot of things, no reason to add to the list. Still, he felt sick.

He went through the motions absently. His back was against Tommy’s, they were taking ten paces, Dream turned on his heel. He didn’t even manage to aim his unloaded gun before Tommy fired.

He didn’t miss.

_ How quickly the predator becomes prey _ . 

He knew this sensation all too well, the incomprehensible burning of a bullet tearing through skin and muscle, splitting organs, blood seeping through the perforation. Dream’s clothes embraced him as the red warmth seeped through. His head didn’t even hurt as it crashed against the dirt road. He smiled at the sky as the sun grew brighter, blurring into the blue. He relished the familiarity of this feeling. 

Tommy had shot with a marksman’s ability and with a sort of hatred Dream knew would corrupt him, and make him cruel. He didn’t even have the decency to look regretful as he was ushered away by his older associates, who plucked the gun from his hand and told him not to look at the soon-to-be-corpse.  _ Me.  _

Dream knew that dozens were crowded around to watch his death - it was a spectacle. Someone sounding as if they were standing a mile away commented, “It would have been good for that man if he were never born.” Dream was inclined to agree. 

He thought of his enemies, Techno and the rest of his comrades. He thought of his friends, and prayed they wouldn’t miss him. He thought of his family, long abandoned, and hoped they would never find out what happened to him. He thought of a sheriff’s badge, of scarred hands and dark hair and fancy clothes. 

Dream couldn’t stop his thoughts from flooding into his mind, and he didn’t bother trying to decipher them. Streams of thought become an incomprehensible, tempestuous ocean rattling his skull. 

_ I hope he still hates me. I hope he never misses me. I hope he knows what happened to me, and I hope he doesn’t care.  _

_ I hope he never knows how much I loved him. _

Dream stared blankly at the sky. He couldn’t bring himself to feel regret, he had had so many brushes with death, at this point it felt more like he was greeting an old friend rather than meeting a stranger. He was dying with a bullet in his side, in a nameless town, surrounded by people he didn’t like or even know. He was king, and this was regicide. This was  _ his _ regicide. 

_ Ain't that just the way _

Dream closed his eyes, and patiently waited. 

Needless to say, he was rather surprised when he woke up the next morning. 

When the surprise subsided, the confusion took its place, and when he realized he didn’t care  _ how  _ he was alive, just that he  _ was,  _ he grew angry. 

He shot upright and immediately regretted it, crying out as pain sliced through his side. He laid back down on the wooden ground in some house he’d never been in. Gritting his teeth and squeezing the tears out of his eyes, he ran a hand over his torso. He flinched as he found stitches precariously holding together a fresh wound - a bullet wound. He had been shot yesterday. Or was it multiple days ago? Or had it only been a few hours?

_ I’m alive.  _

_ Goddamn it.  _

“You’re awake,” A deep, monotone voice commented from the corner of the room. Dream opened his eyes, although his bleary vision did nothing to help him but a face to the voice. 

Dream panicked, realizing there was another person present. He was vulnerable and,  _ shit, _ face was uncovered, and slapped a hand over his mouth. He felt exposed. 

“Sorry about your bandana. I kind of had to remove it, so you could breathe more easily,”

“Who-?” Dream cut himself off. His voice hoarse. “Techno?”

“The one and only,” Dream heard the smirk in his tone. 

The confusion overwhelmed his anger once again. “Why, of all people, did  _ you _ save me? What are you playing at?"

There was a chuckle. “You know, Dream, a ‘thank you’ would’ve been nice, but I suppose neither of us have been a fan of formalities,”

Dream shook his head. He wasn’t thankful, far from it. The first time he was shot, he lived because he was lucky. Now, he lived because someone else was spiteful.  _ How many times do I have to be filled with bullets and stitched together like some sort of ragdoll before I’m allowed to die? _

“Techno, tell me why,” Dream barely managed, “Why didn’t you let me die?”

“It wasn’t the right time,”

Dream would’ve punched him if he had the energy to get off the ground. “What do you want from me? Money? Property? My head on a stake?”

“Don’t jump a gift horse in the mouth,” Techno spoke slowly and sternly, “I have no quarrel with you, so consider this amnesty, of sorts,”

“If you’re looking for answers or information, you won’t get any. I don’t have to explain anything to you,”

“And I’m not asking you to,” 

Dream opened his eyes, and stared at the low wooden ceiling overhead. “After everything I’ve done to you, you chose to save me? For nothing in return? Are you insane?”

“It’s not like I’m completely innocent here,” Techno countered, “We both have commit enough blasphemy for one hundred lifetimes,”

“You could’ve let me die. You wouldn’t have been responsible,”

“No, I wouldn’t have been. But maybe,” Techno sighed, and his tone shifted to something harrowed lacking his usual lavish posturing. “I just felt sorry for you,”

Dream didn’t believe him. There was silence. 

“You know, you were talking when you were bleeding out,” Techno commented absently, “The whole way here, you kept babbling about someone,”

Dream imagined Techno plucking him off the ground, struggling to get a grip on Dream’s limp body. He imagined himself bleeding out, staining Techno’s white shirt as he struggled to keep Dream upright on a horse. He imagined Techno riding fast, with one hand on the reins, the other pressing down on his wound with one hand, desperately trying to stop the blood loss. He imagined using his last clutches on life to say his final words, a final testimonial only Techno would hear. Maybe it was more akin to the mindless babbling of a desperate man. Either way, Dream had a sick feeling he already knew what he said. 

Regardless, he sat up again, ignoring the splitting pain in his torso. He whipped around to face Techno and was greeted by his outlined silhouetted by the sunlight streaming in from the blinds. When Dream’s vision cleared, he noticed the other man was sitting in a handmade, shoddy-looking chair wearing casual clothes. Dried blood crested his cheek, and ever darker circles hung under his eyes in half-crescents. He seemingly shucked both the royal garbs and his prestige.

“What did I say?” Dream asked slowly, looking up at Techno. 

A beat. “George,”

_ Of course.  _

Techno continued, “I couldn’t really make out most of what you said, except that name,” 

Dream was humiliated beyond humiliation, this was mortifying to the highest degree. He was convinced he had gotten over him, and yet thought of George when he was dying, tormented by the ghost of something,  _ someone _ he could never have.

“Why did you really save me, Techno? I know charity work isn’t in your priorities,” Dream laid back down, having lost all desire to look at Techno’s pitying expression for another second. “We’re supposed to be enemies,”

“Friend and foe are merely two sides of the same coin,”

“How wise,” Dream hoped the sarcasm translated through his scratchy voice.

Silence blanketed the room.

Techno spoke first. “You want to leave the west, don’t you?”

“I don’t understand,”

“You lived through your prime. You had the world in your hands, or that’s why it felt like, right? But this place is a machine, just as much like the ones on the east coast or in London. The badlands will chew you up and spit you out a broken man. And now, you’re desperate to escape,"

Feeling like he was fourteen again, Dream huffed in indignance. “How would you know how I feel?”

“Because I lived through it,” Techno said it bitterly, as though he wanted Dream to know he blamed him for it, “Besides, you look like you’ve been living with your toe on the trigger for weeks,” 

Dream snickered for a brief moment, then dropped the smile. Everything hit him at once. He was laying on the floor of some mysterious building with a man who he hated, and still probably does. The word around town had probably spread that he died. He had nowhere to reside. He was nobody. 

“What now, Techno?”

“Leave,” Techno replied simply, “Take what you need, and go somewhere far away,” 

“I’m not going east,”

“Then go to California. Or go North. Whatever you do, you can’t stay here any longer,” 

Dream never thought he’d run away again. Maybe he really was turning into his fourteen year-old self, “I can’t leave. Not yet,” 

“Why not?”

_ Not without him _ . Dream just shook his head. “I need to make things right with someone,”

“George,” Techno said the name as though it were a fact, not a question. 

Dream nodded. “Yeah. Him,”

“Then go to him. What’ve you got to lose?"

_ Everything. Nothing _ . “I don’t know. I don’t think I can face him again. It would’ve been easier to just die," Dream laughed dryly, "Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble, that’s for damn sure,”

“I know it would’ve,” Techno’s voice almost resembled something understanding, “But that’s just how it is on this bitch of an Earth,”

Techno stood from his chair, the floorboards creaking underfoot. His head came into Dream’s field of vision as he leaned over. “You can rest for the rest of the day. I’ll see you out tomorrow,” 

Techno stepped over Dream. He placed a small tin of water next to him on the ground. Then, there were footsteps, then the creak of a door. The steps paused. 

Dream brought his hands to his face. “Then what?”

“You decide from there,” Techno said, closed the door, and disappeared. 

What a terrifying, appalling sentiment.

Dream laid awake on the floor for a few hours, until the room darkened at dusk. He was submerged into a restless sleep, his whole body aching and sweating through the night as his side throbbed painfully. Even worse than the physical torture were his half-lucid nightmares, where he saw flashes of friends he once had, faces of people he once loved. 

When he awoke, he was deeply uncomfortable and not at all ready to leave, but he’d rather die than ask Techno to stay another night when he shoved fresh clothes in Dream’s arms that morning. After he put on Techno’s clothes, Dream got his first good look at the room he had passed out in. 

The room was apparently his bedroom, with a rickety, twin size mattress in the corner, a nightstand littered with gold jewelry, and a small bookshelf filled with an abundance of books about politics with titles Dream could barely comprehend. Through the crooked windows, Dream saw a meagre field of tilled soil, absent of any crops. The whole room felt stale and smelled of dust. It was hard to believe this was somewhere Techno would voluntarily live. It was underwhelming, it didn’t match his decadence, his sumptuousness.

Dream wandered out of the room, treading lightly into a slightly larger room, which seemed to be Techno’s kitchen. He sat at a small, round table, across from a tin of coffee and some papers. Dream wordlessly sat across from him, bracing his hand against the table as he did so. Techno watched like a hawk as he took a sip of his coffee, nose scrunching and brow furrowing at the flavor. 

“Do you dislike it?” Techno asked calmly, blankly. 

“No,” Dream lied. Techno blinked, “To be honest, I don’t like coffee in general,”

Techno raised an eyebrow, “I had assumed, since there were some coffee beans in your satchel-”

“Uh, he - George liked it,” Dream stammered, flinching in anticipation of Techno’s censure. 

Techno merely nodded wistfully, “So you kept it just in case?”

Dream downed the coffee, ignoring the way the boiling water and flat flavor scorched his tongue. He stood abruptly, “Should I be on my way?”

Techno motioned for him to sit down. “Not yet. I have something for you,”

He motioned to the papers in front of Dream, rife with legal jargon he couldn’t make out in his hazy state. He understood it was about some sort of property. 

“What is this?"

“Are you unlettered?” Techno’s expression softened after his rebuke, “If you’re willing to take it, I want you to have my property in California,”

Dream shook his head, pushing the papers across the table, “Techno, I can’t-”

“You can and you will,” He urged, pressing his hand down on the small pile, shoving it back at Dream. 

“You deserve this more than I do,” Dream protested, “I should at least pay you some amount for it-”

“Then pay me. I don’t care. But I know that you need this more than me, and you should take it. I’m not moving out, at least not any time soon,” His eyes hardened, “I wasn’t born in the west, but I know I’m going to die here. Things can be different for you,”

"Why me," Dream shook his head, "We're not even friends-"

"Sure we are," Techno insisted, and gestured to the room, "You've been a guest in my house, eaten my food, and drank of my drink. We're comrades, and believe it or not, I am capable of being a generous man to those I think deserve it. And you, my friend... you deserve it," 

Dream shook his head. "I don't want to be indebted to you,"

"I expect nothing in return. Consider this a gift,"

Dream knew he should be on his hands and knees thanking Techno, worshipping the ground he works on. He couldn't bring himself to express gratitude, only confusion and resentment. Why accept a gift he so clearly did not deserve? 

Dream protested, “This is absurd - I can’t just  _ leave _ ,”

“Sure you can,”

“You expect me to just take these papers and haul ass to California?” Dream asked incredulously. 

“What else  _ can  _ you do, Dream?” 

The words sent Dream’s stomach into the ground. He felt like he was sinking. He snatched the papers and haphazardly shoved them in his satchel as Techno’s words from yesterday echoed in his mind: don’t jump a gift horse in the mouth. Just as he moved to stand up from the table, Techno interrupted him once more. 

“Dream, I know the kid who shot you,” For once, Techno looked small, unsure of himself, “Him and I share blood. I didn’t want your life to be on his hands,”

Dream blinked once, twice, and then he understood _.  _ “You’re family?” - Techno nodded - “What is he, then, your son?”

Techno laughed at that genuinely, in a way that was void of condescension, “God, no, we’re brothers, well, half brothers. Same father,”

Dream nodded slowly. He had learned so much today, so much about himself, the world at large - Techno apparently having a brother was just another absurd fact to add to the ever-growing list. 

Dream collected his belongings - not that there was much to collect - and made his way to the door. Techno was idle the entire time, save for his eyes following Dream as he ambled throughout the small space. 

Techno showed Dream out, and they stood in pregnant silence on the rickety patio, staring into the vastness of the field ahead. The sun shone brightly overhead as the tall grass rippled into waves until the sky met the horizon line, not interrupted by so much as a tree for miles. Dream wondered how or why Techno came to live here, and why he even bothered hauling Dream out here just to kick him out again. 

“If you ride straight ahead you should find a city by sundown,” Techno said, “And ride slow - it’ll hurt like a bitch if those stitches come undone,”

Sometimes, it’s unclear when your life is about to change forever, and you’re unable to see when one thing ends and another begins - you don’t even realize until it’s over. Last November was one of those times for Dream. This was not; it was clear as day that this was some sort of ultimatum. 

Techno tipped his hat to him. “I never thought I’d say this, but it’s been a pleasure Dream,” 

There were so many things Dream wanted to ask. He wanted to know why Techno had a change of heart, what he’s been doing since Dream stripped him of his reputation, but now wasn’t the time to ask. Knowing that there would never be a right time to ask was saddening to Dream, but nonetheless, he also knew he couldn’t stay forever. 

Dream turned to Techno, said, “Thanks for everything,” tipped his hat, and left. 

Dream took Techno’s extra horse, rode straight ahead, until Techno’s small cabin disappeared into the horizon, and there was nothing ahead but the open pasture. With the sun's familiar warmth curling around him, he didn’t bother looking at a map as he set out for  _ Santa Mariana.  _

A few days and too many packs of cigarettes later, Dream found himself hit with a tidal wave of familiarity, drowning in the sickeningly sweet nostalgia as his horse’s hooves hit the familiar dirt road dampened by the rain. He was cold, hungry, and wishing he hadn’t run out of laudanum, but he was here. 

Dream could see the other edge of town from where he stood, it wouldn’t be hard to find George, even if he hadn’t already memorized exactly where his house was. Nonetheless, he found somewhere somewhat dry and safe for his horse, and trudged into the heart of the storm. 

It dawned on Dream that this was brash, imprudent, and above all, stupid. Dream knew he should’ve at least waited to heal, but the convalescent period,  _ waiting  _ would’ve killed him. He convinced himself it was better to risk it all.

Maybe it was romantic. Maybe it was desperate. Maybe it was outright idiotic. Whatever it was, Dream didn’t care. He was going to see George again, and then he was going to leave this hidden tenth circle of hell forever, with or without him. 

Walking up the steps to George’s house, Dream’s hands shook furiously in his pockets. He convinced himself it was the withdrawals. He couldn’t feel his fingers as he knocked on the door, trembling from something more than the cold, something Dream wasn’t going to acknowledge. 

At first, he worried George hadn’t heard him over the rain, and he knocked again. After the third knock he realized George was intentionally ignoring the knocking, and knocked even louder for the fourth and final time. 

From within, he heard shuffling across the floor, the creaking of the floorboards, and the clumsy loading of the gun. 

“State your name and business,” George called curtly through the door. 

Hearing his muffled voice made Dream sick to his stomach. It was so easy to think about George when he was nothing more than a mere memory, it was so  _ easy  _ when he was just humoring delusions that could never reject him, never look at him with contempt in his eyes. George was real, and Dream couldn’t handle this. 

_Shit, I need to respond_. “Oh, um,” - Dream broke out in a nervous laughter, and wanted to kick himself for being such an idiot and sounding so meek - “Dream, and I-,”

In a flash, George flung the door open, his mouth was pursed into a tight line, but his eyes were wide with fear, anger, and a twinge of something Dream couldn’t place. He was panting rapidly, his chest falling and rising apparent through his clothes. The shotgun he held clattered to the ground as the two men stared at one another, each at a loss. 

Dream thought he looked so, indescribably beautiful, but  _ fuck _ , he looked so different, stoic and cold and all edges, from his jaw to the corners of his eyes. Maybe it was selfish of Dream to expect him to look the same. Either way, Dream was grateful for the pouring rain, because at least it masked the sound of his own heart beating. 

_ Say something.  _ “Hey, stranger,”  _ Goddamn it.  _

George slammed the door in his face. Dream didn’t know whether he should laugh or leave or rip out his stitches. He was too shocked to be sad, but he knew he would be eventually. For now, he waited. 

_ It can’t get any worse, can it?  _ “Is now not a good time?” Dream asked tentatively through the door. 

They bickered a bit, George called Dream a cocky son of a bitch when he thought he couldn’t hear him, but it was mostly a blur. Dream was fully on autopilot, too overwhelmed with his own apprehension to put any thought into what he was saying. He could barely even hear what George said over the cacophony rattling his apparently empty skull. He clenched his jaw so hard he could’ve sworn bits of teeth were chipping off.

_ Please let this work out.  _

When George opened the door again, he looked significantly worse, as though he just left a funeral. His eyes were now rimmed with red, bringing out their bloodshotness. George told Dream to leave his guns at the door and let him inside, but it sounded like he was speaking through water. Lagging behind, Dream shucked his guns on the patio, and stepped inside, water from his coat dripping onto the wood floors. George motioned for Dream to sit across from him, reminiscent of Dream’s last conversation with Techno, but with none of the generosity or hospitality. 

“Do you want a drink?” He asked stiffly. 

Dream shook his head, “Thank you, but I don’t drink,” 

“Since when?”  _ He sounds bitter. _

“Since I took a bullet to the side about a week ago,” Dream answered bluntly, thrumming his fingers against the table. He didn’t miss the way George clenched his jaw as he did so, but he made no effort to stop. 

“That’s recent,” George commented. He made no indication of sympathy. 

“Yeah, it still hurts like a bitch,” 

George nodded slowly, but said no more. Dream hated the way he was looking at him, like he was some sort of rat or cockroach that’s impinged on George’s peace. Dream hated that George acted like it wasn’t  _ him  _ who walked, like  _ he  _ had the right to be angry at Dream. Vaguely, Dream wondered if this was even a good idea, if he should even bother convincing George of his ridiculous plan. 

For a brief second, George’s expression shifted into something that was almost soft, even tender. His eyes were filled with warmth instead of coldness, relief instead of ire. There was a flicker of fondness, and Dream realized, in that moment, he’d do anything to recapture that flame. 

Love makes you a fucking moron. 

Presently, neither were speaking. Dream didn’t know what to say, and especially not when George was looking at him so expectantly. Where there was once tenderness in George's eyes, there was now condescending distaste, even resentment. That didn't feel fair to Dream. 

“I don’t reckon you’re going to tell me why you’re here now?” George intoned. 

Dream couldn’t collect his thoughts, there were a million flashing images in front of his eyes, clouding his vision - the time he almost died, what George’s final words to him were, the enormity of his feelings, the second time he almost died, that he had spent every single second since George left being stupidly,  _ stupidly _ in love with him - how was dream supposed to summarize that in a way that made sense? In a way that made him sound endearing, and not a hung-up, obsessive sycophant. How was he supposed to win George back when he himself was such an unequivocal idiot?

He didn’t have time to answer those questions, not when George was leering at him with those cold eyes and an expecting expression. It was like sitting across from an unloving god, awaiting judgement. 

Maybe, by some miraculous chance of the universe, Dream would make this work.

_ Why am I here? _

In panic, he blurted the first words he could think of. 

“I want you to bury me,”

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 is mostly complete, and that will be posted within a month (hopefully). It’s wayyyyy longer than chapter 1, so that’s why this has taken me so long! 
> 
> If you have feedback/questions/etc., feel free to jabber at me on tumblr at @wormweeb.
> 
> Thank you so much to those who've read the fic, your continued support means the world to me <3 comments and kudos are very also much appreciated! they inspire me to keep writing, and they put a smile on my face :)


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